


Breaking the Stalemate

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-13
Updated: 2008-10-13
Packaged: 2019-05-30 11:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15096071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Mid-season 7 - One small step back from the great divide.





	Breaking the Stalemate

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

  
Author's notes: Thanks to Caz for the beta!  


* * *

Breaking the Stalemate

 

She hasn’t seen him all day, not once, but that’s not particularly strange.  He’s incredibly busy running this campaign – micromanaging really, even with both Lou and the Congressman constantly telling him to delegate – and it’s a wonder that he’s ever in a room long enough to accomplish anything before he’s gone again.  The fact that Donna’s own responsibilities often take her out of the office – time spent liaising with media outlets, negotiating with sponsors, and organizing events – only serves to make it less and less likely that she and Josh will be in the same place at the same time. 

 

No, it’s not his physical absence that bothers her; it’s the phone calls – or rather, the lack thereof.  She’s left him at least six messages today and he hasn’t answered a single one.  Getting Josh’s voicemail is a common enough occurrence, but he’s usually pretty good about responding, even if it’s just a quick email or text message.  But today, she hasn’t heard from him at all, and try as she might, she just can’t dispel the tight ball of worry that’s taken up residence in her stomach.  

 

It frustrates her, this inability to banish him from her mind, and she finally gives up on the memo that she’s looked over twice but has yet to comprehend.  Donna reaches for her cell and dials his number, all the while chastising herself for needing reassurance.  It’s not her job to worry about him anymore, not like this; and maybe it never was.  She knows, logically, that he’s fine, but the phrase ‘dead in a ditch’ runs through her mind anyway, making her groan quietly at her own silliness, hoping to God that it’s an isolated incident and she’s not actually becoming her mother.  So Josh hasn’t returned a few phone calls – so what?  Nothing about this situation warrants anything more than mild curiosity and maybe annoyance; certainly, fretting over his whereabouts is uncalled for.  It’s ridiculous, actually, but it seems that where Josh is concerned, her emotions are always heightened beyond what’s strictly reasonable.  

 

Listening to the ringing-tone in her ear, she squeezes her eyes shut for half a second, unnoticed by everyone in a hotel suite crawling with Santos’ staffers determined to make a difference on what is, for most of them, their first campaign.  Half a second and she’s under control again, mentally listing the reasons he’s too busy to answer every phone call, admonishing herself for wondering if he would have answered if she’d called from someone else’s cell.

 

_“Josh Lyman… leave a message.”_

She doesn’t.  Her feet are moving toward the door even as she tells herself to give it five minutes and try back.  She hits redial as she reaches the elevator, her thumb traveling unconsciously to her teeth after it leaves the ‘up’ button.  Three rings and the voicemail is about to…

 

“Yeah?”  

 

Donna relaxes for the first time in hours and lets out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

 

“Hey.  It’s me.” 

 

He doesn’t answer and for a dizzying second she thinks maybe he doesn’t know who ‘me’ is, anymore and feels her stomach lurch at the notion.  

 

There was a time when he’d answer the phone without so much as an acknowledgment, already two sentences into the conversation he wanted to have with her because he’d known it was her calling before he even picked up.  The big things - the tension that hangs in the air between them like thunderclouds; the way they work along side each other but never really _with_ each other; the miserable, stolen glances cut short as soon as eye contact is made - these things have a clear point of origin in her mind.  But when, exactly, had the little things, things like eating at the same table and talking on the phone, become so foreign?  So unfamiliar?  It was earlier, she knows – somewhere in the midst of a CODEL, a China trip and missed promotions – but it happened so insidiously that it remains surprising even after all this time, in spite of the recognized distance between them.

 

“Josh?” she prompts.  Maybe she should come right out and identify herself but she can’t quite get her own name to pass through her lips.

 

“Yeah.  Um… yeah.  What’s going on, Donna?”  He sounds off, distant.  Distant is the new normal for them, of course, stilted exchanges having replaced their formerly effortless repartée, but this isn’t him keeping her at arms’ length.   It’s more like… confusion?  Her concern for him is back in a flood, and she forgets her promise to herself to keep things professional.

 

“Are you okay?” she asks, the worry obvious in her voice.

 

“I’m… yeah, I’m fine.  You need something?”

 

“Where are you?”

 

“Still in my room.  Was there… hang on…”  He must have moved the phone away from his ear or maybe put it down, because he sounds far away, but she can still hear him.  He's taking long, slow breaths, and her concern increases.  Josh doesn’t do slow.  He breathes, moves, thinks and lives at speed and the concept of him purposely slowing himself down sits uneasily in her mind.  It’s unlike him.  It’s disconcerting.  It’s just _wrong._

 

The elevator has arrived, but Donna is too worked up to stand still.  She turns and pushes through the door to the stairwell, walking quickly up the two flights, phone pressed to her ear.

 

“Josh?  Tell me what’s wrong.” 

 

His breathing is closer again and has regained some semblance of normalcy, but his voice sounds shaky as he replies, “Nothing.”

 

Donna purses her lips as she reaches his room, only slightly frustrated in the face of his predictable obstinacy.  “Open your door, Josh,” she says in a no-nonsense voice, knocking insistently.

 

“You’re at my door?” he asks, sounding embarrassed of all things.

 

“Yes.  Open it.”  

 

She’s worried that something is really wrong, something serious, and she wonders how fast she could get someone up here to let her in if he doesn’t do it.  But after a few anxious seconds, she hears him shuffling around and then the chain sliding in the lock.  When he opens the door, pale, shivering and wrapped in a blanket, she breathes a sigh of relief.  He’s okay.  Well, not okay, obviously sick with something, but he’s not… bleeding.  

 

She flinches and pushes that thought away as Josh turns from her and wanders back over to the bed, sitting down gingerly.  As she enters the room, closing the door behind her, he speaks quietly, almost under his breath.

 

"You're ready to go."  

 

Her confusion must be obvious because he gestures vaguely at her body.  She's dressed for tonight’s dinner, one more stop in a long line of campaign events.  

 

            She used to love dressing up; it was a thrill to rub elbows with statesmen and kings.  And of course, there was Josh in his tux.  Those nights in the White House were all laughing and smiling and champagne toasts.  She and Josh would talk a little too freely and dance a little too frequently, her relishing the warmth of his body radiating through his suit, the firm presence of his hands on her back, her hips.   

 

            Now though, the dinners are cold.  Conversation is polite and work-related, always in a group, a fact that she finds nearly unendurable.  After eight years, they've been reduced to discussing the weather in the next state and polling numbers and neither of them seems to be able to break the pattern – though in Josh’s case, she fears it may be a matter of will rather than ability.  

 

            They never dance.  She tells herself it’s the awkwardness of conversation that stops her, but it’s really the fear of silence.  That after all this time, it might turn out that they have nothing left to say.  

 

            Every dinner, every fundraiser, every rally seems to be the same.  The stump speech is read and the guests clap and mingle.  The Congressman is charming, his wife stunning.  The staff rides back in Town Cars or Suburbans to a nameless hotel with track lighting and worn carpets.  She and Josh part in the lobby with no discernable warmth, and Donna closes herself into her room, feeling just as alone as she had when she'd woken up that morning.  No more, no less, and maybe that’s the worst part of this rift between them – the static nature of it. 

 

            Oh, there are variations, sure.  Donna will occasionally read something that Josh would find amusing in the wires or the local paper, her hand automatically circling the article a split-second before she realizes she’ll never show it to him.   Or, if she rides in a Suburban instead of a Town Car, she might wake somewhere in the grey light of pre-dawn, sitting bolt upright in bed, gripping fistfuls of bed sheets with white knuckles, his name on her lips.  But really, these are only little things, things that change the day as much as having tea with breakfast instead of coffee and the next morning they'll head to a new state and do it all over again.  It's been said that hell is other people, but it isn't, not for Donna.  For her, hell is this new life, this polite and detached repetition.

 

            Josh watches her from his perch on the bed, wondering when it was that she became so confident and poised in formal wear.  He remembers how she looked the night of President Bartlet’s first Inauguration, nervous and excited in a pale green gown.  Tonight, Donna is dressed in a smart black dress and pumps.  He hates to see her in black; she rarely wore it before.  She should be in color, vibrant - but he can't say so.  He won't.  His eyes don't linger on her form – he's schooled himself away from that over the years, knows when her attention is on him and when it's safe to look.  He doesn't meet her gaze either though, not tonight.  His head is throbbing and the rest of him aches like he just went twelve rounds with George Foreman, and it's too much, too draining to try to keep up his guard.  He's too tired to fake nonchalance; he knows that she'd be able to see the truth in his eyes and he can't let that happen.  He's not really all that scared of her seeing how much he misses her.  Hell, he's told her at least once, though he hadn't meant to say it at the time.  

 

_... if you think I don’t miss you every day..._

 

What terrifies him is that, having seen it, her face will stay the same.  That his feelings aren't reciprocated.  That she doesn't need him anymore, not professionally, not personally.  That her concern for him is born from nothing more than nostalgia and pity.

 

So, he merely waves a hand at her dress and lets his eyes fall, running them along the carpet between them. "For the thing... you're ready to go."

 

            She nods as she crosses the room to him, placing her hand on his forehead once she reaches the bed.  The temperature difference is startling and he leans into her, relishing the coolness of her palm.  His body feels like he’s neck deep in ice water, but his face is flushed and her hand feels like heaven.  It’s not just the fever, though… Donna’s touch has always felt like home to him.

 

"Well, you're hot -”

 

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

 

“- but not scary hot.  Where does it hurt?"

 

"Head, mostly." She takes her hand away and he feels a second of mourning for the lost touch.  _There it goes_... he thinks, his mind a little fuzzy with fever and pain and fatigue.  He drops his head, cradling it in his hands, trying to replace her touch with his own, but his hands feel hot and dry.  They do nothing to soothe him.

 

He closes his eyes as Donna rattles off questions, probing for information.   Nausea?  Not really, no.  Vomiting?  No.  Dizziness?  Yes.  Muscle aches?  Definitely yes.

 

"A couple of the volunteers were sick with this in New York,” she says, her voice sympathetic. “It's viral, so there's not much we can give you to make you better, but it shouldn't last more than a few days.  How badly does your head hurt?"  

 

            He looks up at her, finally meeting her gaze, and sees the worry there, the concern that hasn't quite been banished.  Damn it.  He shouldn't have stopped talking on the phone no matter how dizzy he had been.  It would have scared him to death if she’d done that.  He probably would have broken down the door.  He tries on a small smile to try to reassure her and sighs. "It hurts, but I'm okay.  Really.  I just need some industrial strength aspirin and I'll be good to go."

 

"And where, exactly, do you think you're going?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

"To... the dinner.”

 

"Josh.”  She shakes her head slightly, but the air of finality, the resolve that is – that used to be – typical of Donna when dealing with him is missing.    Josh is slightly unnerved but presses on, thinking that at least her quiet, monosyllabic opposition means he’ll be able to convince her.

 

"Donna, I'm fine.  And I have to go to this thing.  Congressman Klein is going to be there and I need to talk to him."

 

"How can you put talking to a lame duck Congressman above your health?"  The words are confrontational, but her voice sounds sad and tired and he misses the passion she used to have when arguing with him.  The dance is the same as it’s always been, but someone has changed the music; and now the two of them - who were always able to keep perfect time - can’t seem to find the beat.  Josh has no idea what to do about it though, except to continue the well-learned steps of debate and hope that somehow, they’ll stumble back onto the true rhythm.

 

"I have a thing I need him to help with."

 

"Klein is a Republican,” she says, her eyes narrowing, “He's not going to publicly endorse Santos, even on his way out."

 

"No, but he can talk up Santos with the unions in his state.  He still has a voice there and he's with us on some things.  He's fronted three education bills since he took office, all of them advocating an end to teacher tenure."

  
"And all of them being endlessly bogged down in committee." 

 

"Yes, but that's beside the point."

 

"What is the point?"

 

"There was no way he'd cross the aisle when he still had a seat, but now?  He's not running again because the RNC say he’s too moderate, too friendly with the opposition, and they choked off his funding.  He's feeling pretty disenchanted with the Republican Party at large.  There's no reason that he can't help us out.  Especially since we’re running against Vinick.  Klein is an education guy, Donna."

 

"And the rest of his platform?  His _Republican_ platform?  You don't think that’ll interfere?"

 

"It would if the Republican ticket were reversed, but not with Vinick as the nominee.  Klein is for school prayer, he's for education reform, he's against gun control legislation.  Vinick isn't strong on _any_ of those things.  We can get him, Donna."  

 

"Sullivan is strong in all of those things."

 

"Sullivan is an empty shirt; everyone knows Vinick can't be manipulated.  Klein could be with us.  Not out loud, but behind the scenes.  I know it."

 

"And you propose to do this in the time you'll have at the party tonight?"

 

"No, I just need to lay some ground work.  Let him know we've noticed him."  

 

Donna studies him for a moment and he struggles to interpret the expression on her face.  She's frustrated with him; he can tell that by the way she's standing, arms crossed loosely over her chest, head turned slightly to the left.  But there's something else... genuine concern?  He feels a burst of hope that maybe, just maybe, she'll fall into the old routine.  The one where she takes care of him when he’s sick and she doesn’t see it as an inconvenience - or worse, as an outright aggravation.  Yeah, it could happen.  Any second now she’ll come up with a plan to make him feel better, probably some cock-eyed Wisconsin remedy involving tree-bark flavored tea.  Any second now…

 

"Okay,” she says.

 

… she’ll just acquiesce - as though it doesn’t matter to her either way.

 

"O... okay?" he asks doubtfully.  

 

            She nods and steps back from the bed. He raises an eyebrow at her, wondering if he had it wrong all along.  Maybe taking care of him was always a nuisance for her; maybe _he_ was always a nuisance but she hid it for the sake of the job.  And maybe now that she’s not his assistant she couldn’t care less about his health.  He’d thought that they used to be close – close enough that she couldn’t have cast off her regard for him entirely - but maybe he was wrong.  Either way, he needs to stop this, this over-analysis of their past – it never brings him anything but grief and uncertainty.  Anyway, he couldn’t have been that far off the mark.  He’s not exactly adept at reading human behavior, but neither is he completely delusional.  It was there… at one point, she really cared.  But now..? 

 

He examines her face, desperately looking for any trace of the Donna he used to know – the one who sat on his couch watching _Man from U.N.C.L.E._ reruns and sharing his beer in the sweltering summer after Rosslyn; the one who spent Christmas Eve in a hospital waiting room making up fantastic stories to explain the injuries of the other patients in an effort to distract him; the one who once turned his chest hair green by insisting he apply a ridiculously ineffective, foul-smelling salve meant to cure a persistent chest cold. 

 

 He searches for any sign of lingering affection but she only looks back at him, her expression closed of all emotion.  He can't tell what she's thinking at all.  God, that bothers him, not knowing whether she’s keeping her feelings to herself or whether she’s simply apathetic.  

 

To some degree, Josh is grateful that he’s apparently going to get past her without having to prove himself, but there is a small part of him that just can’t accept her disinterest and so he feels compelled to confirm her position. 

 

"I'm going to the dinner,” he asks, “and you're... you're not going to guilt me or try to sedate me or anything?"

 

"No, you're free to do as you please," she says with a shrug of her shoulders. 

 

            And there it is again - indifference.  It's not as though he wants to stay in his hotel room, but he had hoped for a little more fight.  Instead, everything he fears is being confirmed.  She doesn't care about him anymore and she’ll certainly never think about him the way he thinks about her.  She's here for the job, for the experience, and he's kidding himself by thinking that they can be more than colleagues, that they can ever get back what they lost when she walked out on him.  

 

            And, why, exactly, does that bother him?   _She_ left _him_.  He'd worked so hard to make sure they could stay together, trading the potential of a personal relationship for the surety of a professional one, and she'd left him anyway.  A familiar tightness binds his chest, but the anger is weak, a cardboard cut-out of the rage he had felt in the days and weeks after she joined Russell.  Those feelings have faded, leaving behind the truer emotion - heartbreak.  She hurt him.  His fault, he knows, for letting himself believe that anyone in their right mind would stay with him when given the choice, for getting so attached to her that she _could_ hurt him.  No.  He won't allow himself to think about it.  If she can move on, so can he.   

 

"Okay, well... I'll see you there," Josh says, forcing a cheerful tone that sounds hollow to his ears.

 

"Yeah.  All you have to do to convince me is stand up and walk briskly to the closet to get your tux."  

 

Relief washes over him and he can't suppress a smile as he realizes that she must still care about him, at least a little.  She won't let him leave unless he convinces her he's fine.  And that will be easy.  He'll show her that, although his head feels like it's in a vice-grip, he's still his usual charming self.

 

"I'm already wearing my tux," he quips, smirking at her.  

 

She sighs, dropping her arms in a gesture of exasperation.  "Then let's see it."  

 

_Okay, no problem; I can be convincing_ , he thinks.  

 

Josh stands up obediently and much too quickly for his protesting head, letting the blanket fall to reveal a very wrinkled tuxedo.  The shirt has come un-tucked and is twisted halfway around his body and his tie is missing.  He keeps his head down until he's steady on his feet, then looks up with a triumphant smile.  Donna is clearly unconvinced, standing back with arms once again folded and a doubtful expression on her face.  

 

"Walk to me..." she demands.

 

            His confidence flickers, but he figures he can fake it long enough to cross the room, so he takes a step at his usual breakneck pace.  Everything works just as it should at first and so he's in the middle of his third step, mouth opening to make a smart comment, when the dizziness hits.  All of a sudden it's like the floor is dropping hard to the right and he snaps his eyes down to the carpet, struggling to regain his balance.  The abrupt motion causes the pain in his head to mount, the thudding of his pulse behind his eyes threatening to drive him mad, and he staggers.  There is the briefest of instants when he wonders how much it will hurt his head to fall and then her hands are on his back, her arms reaching around his sides, and he feels her body against his chest, supporting him.  

 

He groans, partly from the pain in his head, but also from the pain of being this close to her.  It isn't fair that he should have to go without her – that he should be getting used to not touching her, not having her – and then have to endure such a glorious intrusion.  He puts his hands on her shoulders and shifts some of the weight back to his own body, but neither of them removes their hands from the other.  She tilts her head up to look at him and he swallows, hard.  This close to her, he can't help but see her, really see her, the way he hasn't let himself since... maybe ever.  He can see the flecks of grey in her eyes.  He's close enough to smell her skin, her recently applied perfume nearly masking the clean, familiar scent that is all her.  He could count her freckles if he wanted to.  He does want to… is that a weird thing to wonder about someone?  How many freckles are on her chest?  Whether they stop or go all the way down to her feet?  What it would be like to run his fingers over every one of them?  He takes a deep breath and pushes those thoughts away as she smiles wryly and speaks.

 

"Okay, right here?  This is where I'm thinking the wheels have come off the wagon."  

 

He straightens up fully; reluctantly letting his hands fall away from her shoulders, he takes a second to regain his composure.  When he is steady, Donna releases him, his body still tingling everywhere it had touched hers.  He instantly yearns to regain contact with a ferocity he hasn’t felt since last winter; the longing leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

"Look, I'll talk to the guy sitting down, okay?  I'm fine."  What he needs is to get out of this room and away from her, so he can go back to pretending he's not constantly thinking about her without her close proximity making that delusion impossible.

 

"You're not fine.  You can't go out." 

 

"I can make it through a party."

 

"You have to go back to bed, Josh."

 

"Donna, I'm fine."

 

“You’re not.”

 

“I am!”

 

"I think your shoes are on the wrong feet."  

 

With a frustrated sigh, he looks down and sees that she's right. 

 

"Dammit," he says and it comes out in a whimper.  He sways a little and Donna reaches out to steady him.

 

"Josh, sit back down on the bed," she says softly.  

 

            He complies willingly, exhaustion having replaced his earlier determination, but he's not able to concede defeat until he's settled something.  Leaving things unfinished has never been his modus operandi, at least not when it comes to work.  His face twists in concentration as he goes over the problem in his mind, a task made desperately harder by the plethora of aches and pains his tired body is hosting.  Even in his weakened state, though, it isn't long before he reaches a decision.  It's the only way.  It's the best solution.  But still, he's not sure.  Not sure he likes the idea.  Not sure it will even work.  Not sure he's ready to let this go.  Because it would mean trusting her, letting her back on the team, and he’s not sure he’s ready for that yet. 

 

Since she joined the Santos campaign, he’s mostly let Lou direct her work and watched from afar as Donna deftly handles press and contributors.  It’s impressive - really impressive - how fluidly she deals with them, but he’s not at all surprised.  In fact, he’s caught himself wondering on more than one occasion how well she would apply herself to a more internal role, one more instrumental in cementing the issues of Santos’ platform instead of merely explaining those policies to a crowd.  She could be good, maybe great, he thinks, but she’s too useful where she is to change the dynamic just to satisfy his curiosity – curiosity which may well be – at least partially – born from his masochistic desire to see more of her; and how would he explain that to Lou?

 

This, though... this is important.  It has to be done and she’s the best choice.  He doesn't know if she can do it, in all honesty - it's a stretch, even though the circumstances are right, and the idea is daunting even to him.  But if there is anyone else who can do this, anyone at all, it's her.  She's amazing, anyone can see that - brilliant, charming, a sponge for information both substantive and trivial.  She's absorbed every tactic, every fact, every meeting, and now she's ready to stand on her own two feet.  He knows it.  It just hurts him to think that she no longer has any need of his guidance, that she’s ready to go it alone.  Then again, it also hurts him to have her close, so it's something of a conundrum.

 

"Donna, someone has to talk to Klein.  It doesn't have to be much, just fifteen minutes of friendly small talk over drinks, gently steering the conversation toward the bills he's supported and the ones he hasn't.  He should go off on the education tangent with very little prompting and then it's just knowing when to nod and when to smile.  The words 'union', 'endorsement' and 'Santos for President' should not, under any circumstances, be a part of this first conversation.  It's ground work only."  He watches her face for a response, but she only looks as though she's been expecting this.  He supposes Donna knows him well enough to assume he won't sleep without sending out instructions on how to handle everything in his absence, from political maneuvering to seating arrangements on the ride over.  

 

"Do you have a file of his voting record?" she asks as she sits down next to him on the bed, her hand falling at her side only inches away from his leg. He nods, trying not to be distracted by how close she's sitting.  His gaze is drawn to her mouth as she speaks again. "Give it to me and I'll give it to Lou."

 

"It can't be Lou,” he says quickly, “She's campaign muscle; she doesn't know the Hill.  And she doesn't have enough time to familiarize herself with a file full of bills and amendments she's never seen before."

 

"Bram?"

 

He shakes his head gingerly. "Exactly the same problems as Lou, but with even less experience."

 

"The Congressman, then?"

 

"Absolutely not.  He can't be seen talking to Klein directly in case it falls through.  Anyway, he'll be busy with the speech and the contributors." 

 

"Josh, you really can't go.  I know you want to, but you'll pass out halfway through the soup course, and that won't do anything to convince Klein."

 

"I know that.  But someone has to talk to him."

 

"Unless you can fly Leo in from Florida on seventy minutes notice, you just ruled out the obvious choices."

 

"No, I didn't," he says firmly.  

 

She looks at him, brow furrowed, desperately searching her mind for another choice, someone working on the campaign who’s capable of sweet-talking a congressman.  She's mentally crossing people off the list as Josh continues. 

 

"Listen, it needs to be someone who knows the Hill.  Someone who's gone over Klein's record before and can follow the file.  Someone who can _read_ the distinctive penmanship on the file.  And if that someone happened to grow up just outside of his district, well, that'd really sweeten the deal."

 

Understanding begins to dawn on her, but Donna's still unsure.  He can't be asking her what she thinks he is, can he?

 

"Klein's district – it's Milwaukee, right?" she asks, although she already knows it is.  She put that file together during the last midterms and he's only been updating it since. "Wisconsin 5th?"

 

"You know it is."

 

"Yeah."  

 

He's looking at her, obviously waiting to see what she'll say, but she doesn’t know how to tell him how happy she is to be asked without letting down her guard. 

 

            She's been waiting for him to accept her on this campaign, to show her that he recognizes how far she's come from that young woman in Manchester eight years ago.  She can do so much more than Josh has ever asked her to, more than she would have believed possible, and it's because of him.  It kills her that he doesn't seem to see it.  He adds her questions to polls, sure, and he includes her as much as any staffer, but she knows that he doesn't really trust her anymore.  Not like he used to.  

 

They used to be a team, the two of them against the world; she was his go-to girl when he needed something done.  Sure, some of the jobs were embarrassing or less than critical, like shadowing DAR party guests or trolling for votes long distance to New Hampshire in the freezing cold, but the size of the task never factored in for Donna.  Even though she might have complained on occasion, she's proud of everything she’s done.  She feels like she’s made important contributions - small though they may have been - to the administration’s successes.  But now, on the Santos campaign, it's like starting from scratch and she knows she bears at least half the responsibility for that loss of trust.  She can admit that now, though at first she’d been blinded to it by her anger.  But that makes her all the more determined to do well for Santos. And for Josh.  

 

Working for Russell, she’d never felt quite right.  She was a part of the team in ways that she’d never been in the Bartlet White House, but she still felt like an outsider.  And after a few months on the road – once her desire to be doing something new and self-realizing faded from a blinding urge to a constant, quiet companion – she’d realized why.  She didn’t believe in Russell.  She thought for a while that it was because she’d been so lucky before, having a man like Josiah Bartlet to stand up for the first time around.  And that was true, but it wasn’t the real reason.  Eventually, she’d had to admit to herself that she wasn’t comparing Russell to President Bartlet. It wasn’t the current President she was using as a ruler, wasn’t Bartlet against whom the cowboy VP repeatedly fell short.  It was Josh.  It was Josh’s morals, his standards, his unyielding drive to do good that constantly proved Russell wanting.  And it’s her desire to be useful to Josh and his causes as much as her need to better herself that fuels her drive to get Santos elected.

 

She desperately wants to prove to Josh that she can be even more valuable this time around.  She wants the opportunity to show him that she can apply everything he's taught her and have him be the one to benefit.  And this is it.  He's asking her to be his wingman again.  Doubt takes root in her stomach as she wonders whether she can really pull it off.  She's done press releases, dealt with reporters, even talked the pants off contributors, but this … this is big boy school.  

 

She looks at Josh, trying to keep the uncertainty from showing in her face but apparently failing miserably because he smiles at her reassuringly. 

 

"You can do this, Donna."  A smile tweaks the corners of her mouth and his widens in return. "You're ready for this."

 

"Okay," she says in a small voice.  She knows that she should say more, but she's afraid that if she opens her mouth she'll start babbling uncontrollably or thank him too profusely or say the wrong thing and make him rethink his decision – in short, put herself out there where he can make or break her on a whim, which is something she has resolved never to do again.  So she just smiles at him – her eyes taking in his flushed cheeks, the dimpled grin, the tired expression in his eyes – and sets herself to the task at hand – putting Josh to bed before she has to leave for the event.  

 

"You should get undressed."

 

He nods slowly, apparently too tired to formulate a witty comeback, and begins tugging at his suit jacket with one hand while feebly attempting to unbuckle his belt with the other.  After a few half-hearted pulls have made little difference, she sighs and gestures at his shoulders.

 

"Do you want me to help with that?"  He continues his efforts, head down, seemingly oblivious to her scrutiny.  "Josh?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

“Do you need me to help you?” she asks.

 

“Help me what?”  
  


"Take off your pants and jacket?"  

 

He looks at her in shock for a second and blood rushes to her cheeks as she realizes what she just said.  Or what it sounded like she just said.  But before she can back-peddle, Josh is laughing at her, really laughing, like he used to.  His laughter is infectious and for a moment they're laughing together in a way they haven't since before the Santos campaign, before the primaries, before Gaza, and it's completely disarming.  Then Josh's laughter cuts off abruptly, his face contorting in pain as he brings his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.  Donna's giggles fade immediately and she resists the urge to run her hand through his hair, unwilling to expose herself enough to test that boundary. This is the most relaxed they've been together in months, but as much as her mind and body crave his companionship, she doesn't want to push him.  Push _them_.  

 

"It really hurts, huh?"

 

"Yeah, but that was worth it.  I needed that."  He smiles a little, but his face is strained and she knows what he really needs is a good night's sleep.   

 

She reaches for his jacket and he allows her to help him while using his feet to push off his shoes.  She unbuttons his dress shirt and he shrugs it off his shoulders.  That having been accomplished, she orders him to stand up and unfastens his belt, trying unsuccessfully not to picture a very different outcome from this particular one.  She begins to pull the belt undone, but Josh starts a little and takes control of the situation, gently moving her hands away.  Donna moves to the head of the bed, taking advantage of the fact that he's standing to pull down the blankets.  She stands there for a moment, a confused expression on her face, and then speaks.

 

"Josh."

 

"What?"   

 

"Where’s your pillow?"

 

"I – uh… it’s – “ he gestures toward the window, “over there.”

 

Donna cranes her neck and sees several pillows on the floor on the other side of the bed.

 

“Have you developed a phobia?”

 

He blinks at her, confused.  “What? No. They’re just… squashy. I hate squashy pillows."

 

Donna sighs and picks up the phone beside the bed, dialing the front desk as Josh fusses with his pants.  He begins to pull them down and she feels a flash of discomfort.  She’s seen him in his underwear before, dozens of times actually, but somehow this time feels new and strange and overly intimate.  Hurriedly, she turns her back as a man identifying himself as Michael answers the phone.  She begins to explain the situation, but as soon as she has given the room number and said the word ‘pillow’, she is rather abruptly put on hold. 

 

"Huh," she says, frowning.

 

"What?"

 

"I'm on hold."

 

"Was it Michael?"

 

"Yes," she says, confused as to why that matters.

 

"Did you ask for a pillow?" Josh voice comes from behind her as his discarded pants fly past, landing in a tangled heap on the floor.  Shaking her head slightly at his untidiness, Donna answers his question.

  

"Yes, and then he put me on hold.  He was pretty rude about it, actually."

 

"Yeah, he's not coming back for a few minutes.  We played a few rounds of this game last night."

 

"You called for a firmer pillow last night?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And?"

 

"And, the guy brought me a squashy one. I sent him back down and he came back with yet another squashy pillow.  So, I calmly and clearly explained to him the difference."

 

"You yelled at him, you mean."

 

"Not nearly as much as I yelled at the manager after the guy refused to bring me any more pillows.  By the way, I think he's a Republican."

 

"The pillow guy or the manager?"

 

"Both," Josh mumbles.  He's finding it really difficult to keep his eyes open now, and he sits down on the bed, swinging his feet up and tucking them under the covers before lying back onto the mattress.  Donna turns to look at him, biting her lower lip the way she does when she's weighing her options.  Josh watches her sigh and hang up the phone as he struggles to hold on to consciousness, his exhaustion threatening to overtake him.

 

"Hang on," she says, apparently having come to a decision, and then, before he can respond, she leaves the room, taking his key card from the bedside table.

 

Silence descends on him and Josh lies on the firm hotel mattress with his eyes closed.  Despite the pain and the sickness, he feels strangely comforted.  He replays them over in his mind, the tiny and gigantic moments just passed; her laughing with him, the sudden flush of her cheeks, the quick recovery into giggles, the unguarded look in her eyes.  That was the best part.  Her eyes.  She wasn't hiding from him and he knew that at that moment, his face had been the same - open.  As though, for that brief period of time, they had called time-out on their game of hide-and-seek and lived together in the moment without worrying what their expressions were showing.  He smiles drowsily to himself and wonders, for the first time since she left him, if they might not be alright after all.  If what they had is still there, buried under hurt and distrust and self-imposed emotional distance. And if it's still there, how it can brought back to the surface...

 

His mind begins to wander along less coherent lines of thought, drawn deeper by the rhythm of his own breathing; he's nearly asleep when he hears her open the door.  As she enters the room, he rolls onto his side to watch her, shuddering as his head voices its opposition to any movement.  After closing his eyes through the worst of the pain, he looks up at her, noting the concerned expression on her face.

 

"You okay?" she asks, dropping the keycard on the dresser by the door before walking over to the mini-fridge to retrieve a bottle of water.

 

"Donna..." he says, not feeling anywhere near okay but unwilling to say so aloud.  She offers him a sympathetic look and comes over to sit on the edge of the bed beside him.

 

"I know.  You’re not well.” She pauses and tilts her head to the side, smiling slightly.  “Of course, I've been saying that for years..."

 

"Hey!" he protests weakly.  

 

She smiles a little more and he gets a glimpse of her trademark toothy grin, not fully in attendance yet, but tantalizingly close to the surface.  Then he turns his attention to the object in her hands.  "I see you brought me a pillow."

 

"I did."

 

"It's not squashy, is it?"

 

"Nope, it's firm.  You know, you could have had one just like it last night if you'd learn to keep your temper.”  

 

“He provoked me.  He brought the wrong pillow on purpose.  Don’t forget that I’m the injured party here.”

 

“You're ridiculous and it's no wonder your head is hurting so much."

 

He raises an eyebrow at her, amused. "You think I'm sick from the lack of a pillow?"

 

"It couldn't have helped."

 

“How could a pillow make any difference?  You said it yourself, this is viral.”

 

“It is, but the support of a good pillow can ease neck tension.”

 

“And neck tension causes viruses?”

 

“No, but it can cause and worsen headaches."

 

"Donna, I don't think not having a pillow is to blame for this headache, nor is having one now likely to make much of a difference - but thanks for bringing it.  What else do you have there?"   The words make sense but his voice sounds sleepy and slow, even to his own ears.  

 

"Ibuprofen.  It'll help with the aches and pains.  Here."  

 

He props himself up on his elbow and she hands him two pills and the water to wash them down.  As he drinks, she leans over him, putting the pillow behind him on the mattress.  While she positions it, her face hangs inches above his and her hair falls, brushing against his cheek and neck.  He inhales sharply at the sensation and she draws back, taking the water from him and putting it on the bedside table.  His eyelids are drooping as he settles back onto the bed.  Josh takes in a deep breath and is suddenly surrounded by the most comforting scent, a soft mix of conditioner, cocoa butter and that unnamable thing, that thing that is just _her_.  He opens his eyes.

 

"Hey, this is your pillow."

 

"Yeah.  My room is just down the hall and I figured running down there would be less time consuming than trying to convince a hotel manager that you're repentant enough to deserve proper neck support.  I do have a party to get to, you know.”

 

"How'd you get a firm pillow?"

 

"I asked last night."

 

"How come you didn’t get squashy?"

 

She smiles wryly.  "I did, actually, but I explained what I wanted _nicely_ and they brought a firm one after that.  You can get more flies with honey, Josh."

 

"Flies... that's a good way to describe them," he responds sleepily, "Pillow-withholding bloodsuckers."

 

She rolls her eyes at him. "I think you're confusing flies with mosquitoes."

 

"Whatever... Republican parasites, was my point.  Hogging the wealth."

 

"The pillow wealth?" she asks, standing up.

 

"Mmm-hmm."  He closes his eyes again, listening to her move around the room.  He hears her open his backpack and flip through its contents, easily locating the file she’s looking for.  He hears her flick on his bathroom light and draw the door most of the way shut so that he'll be able to see if he wakes in the middle of the night.  He pictures her every motion, but in his mind her dress is a memorable shade of red.  He smiles and lets himself be drawn ever closer to sleep by the sounds she makes collecting, folding and hanging his discarded clothing, and is no longer really awake by the time she comes over to check on him one last time before leaving.  His mind is hovering at the very edge of sleep, wanting to rest but unwilling to miss out on a second of her presence.  And so, he lingers, aware only of the fact that she is still there.

 

"Josh?"  she whispers - and when he doesn't answer, gives in to temptation and runs a hand through his hair.  He leans into her touch and she lets her hand rest for a moment before reaching to pull the blankets up around him.  The movement causes him to stir slightly and he mumbles through the layers of unconsciousness.

 

"It helps..."  

 

She smiles, remembering nights on buses during _Bartlet for America_ when she, Toby, Sam and CJ (mostly CJ, of course) would amuse themselves with Josh's ability to carry on a coherent - but ultimately completely unremembered - conversation in the moments after he drifted off.

 

"What helps, Josh?"

 

"... the pillow..."  

 

She can't help but grin. “The pillow makes you feel better?"  

 

"A _lot_ better..."

 

She should let him rest but she can’t resist pursuing the conversation, especially since he had denied so thoroughly that the pillow would ease the pain in his head in any way.  

 

"See, I told you.  Proper support for your head and neck is important.   And it helps to relieve headaches."  She touches his face, seeking contact under the guise of confirming once again that his fever is mild.

 

"... head still hurts... the same..." 

 

An incredulous expression plays across her face.  _The man is stubborn enough to argue in his sleep_ , she thinks. _It's really quite something._

 

"Okay, fine.  But if it doesn't help your headache, then how does the pillow make you feel so much better?"  

 

She waits for a comeback, but his breathing has evened out and after a minute she realizes that he's really asleep now.  She stands, taking a second to look down at his sleeping form and considers what to do next.  She knows that she wants things to get better between them.  She wonders if he does, too and whether their ideas of ‘better’ would be at all similar.  Whether the distance between them is as painful for him as it is for her.  

 

She sighs, collects her purse and the file on Klein, then turns and walks to the door.  She stands with the door open, placing the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the doorknob before surveying the room one last time.  Seeing that everything is in place, she reaches in and flips the switch, plunging the room into darkness.  

 

Josh must have registered the change even with his eyes closed, because he stirs and answers her question, mumbling in a voice thick with sleep.  To everyone else in the world, with the possible exception of his mother, the words coming out of his mouth would have been utterly incomprehensible, but Donna understands.

 

“… it makes me feel better because it smells like you…” he murmurs, his tone making it clear that that should have been the most obvious thing in the world, more obvious than gravity, more obvious than the sun rising in the east.  

 

Donna pulls the door to his room closed behind her and leans against it, silently considering Josh’s comment; he feels better because of her.  Because of _her_.  She knows that doesn’t mean that he’s not still angry or that he’s happy to have her working with him.  Hell, it doesn’t necessarily mean he wants her around at all.  But what it _does_ mean, what comforts her in the most fundamental way, is that he still feels _something_ for her, that he hasn’t sequestered her from his thoughts entirely.  Knowing this, she feels closer to him than she has in months.  Hope and relief – two emotions that have lately been absent from her life - wash over her as she steps away from his door and walks down the hall.  And as she heads to the party, Donna finally lets herself begin to believe that the two of them might find their way back to being _them_ again - Joshanddonna, one word, like they used to be; and maybe …even better. 

 

End


End file.
